


But The Story Is This

by Amiril



Series: The Drunk Philosophy Club [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Assigning Blame for Feelings, Discussion of feelings, Drinking, F/M, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Tacky birthday parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amiril/pseuds/Amiril
Summary: “I don’t think you’ve told me the best love story you have, yet.”“Haven’t I?”Yennefer raises her eyebrows, in a way that she’s been reliably informed makes her look all-knowing and smug.Come on, you runt. Wallow with me.-Or: Months later, Jaskier comes back with counter-examples.(Follow-up toGarrotter, Jury and Judge)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Drunk Philosophy Club [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669642
Comments: 15
Kudos: 212





	But The Story Is This

Yennefer finds the entire concept of birthday celebrations irritating. It’s one thing when it’s a child, beating the odds to survive from year to improbable year, or perhaps someone in their seventies facing similar uncertainty: but for a Duke in his mid-thirties, it just seems… unnecessary. Smug. The money to pay for food and doctors kept him alive for another year. Hooray.

If Yennefer made a habit of celebrating _her_ every birthday, she’d have run out of coin long ago.

Not that she has very much now. Which is part of why she’s here in the first place. She wasn’t specifically _invited,_ but she’s just well-known enough that everyone will assume she was, and it’s been a while since she’s been able to enjoy the type of fare that comes with such events.

It’s the food. Alright? She’s here for the food.

And the music.

She’d heard he was in town entirely by chance. Or that’s what she tells herself. She certainly hasn’t been keeping an ear to the ground. That would have been ridiculous.

The stone hall is large and drafty, which is good for music and shouting but bad for conversation, so it takes a moment to realize that a man is speaking to her.

“I would be honored,” he’s saying, and, deciding that she might as well look as though she’s here with someone instead of standing near the food, Yennefer gives him her hand. She’s a good enough dancer to steer them away from the drunk people stumbling around floor, and it gives her an excuse to look strategically at the bard.

Her dance partner gives her his name as they step left, right, hands together, turn—and she smiles, tells him hers, and forgets his almost immediately. His coat isn’t rich enough to make him worth taking up with for the money, and he has nothing else appealing about him.

Except his shoes. He does have nice shoes: she makes a mental note to find a similar pair later.

“Sing a slow one!” the Duke hollers, when the song ends. “Let us catch our breaths!”

“Sing your song about kissing!” shouts another.

Jaskier chuckles. “That’s a sad one. Surely you don’t want a story of doomed love on your birthday, my lord.”

“The kissing one!” the Duke echoes, and suddenly everyone is shouting “the kissing one! The kissing one!” in various states of intoxication. Jaskier rolls his eyes, but he’s clearly loving this: not only are all their eyes on him, but they know his music well enough to have a preference.

If the bard has been wasting away pining these last few months, he doesn’t look like it.

Then again, neither does she.

Not that she’s been pining.

Though she has failed to find better company. She’d had to sneak through some catacombs a few weeks prior and had wondered if Istredd—

Well. Anyway.

Up on his dais, Jaskier turns, as though checking to make sure everyone really does want the kissing song, and that’s when he sees her. His mouth falls halfway open, but he passes it off as a breath before he begins to sing. Yennefer doesn’t catch all the words, but she’s fairly certain that this song is about her.

“She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss,” he warns, voice growing larger with each recitation, and a few people whoop.

“Listen to the man, Toddrick!” someone hollers, and all his fellows jeer good-naturedly at the man in question.

Jaskier bows. “Thank you, thank you. Now if you’ll allow me a moment to get a drink—”

“Another!”

He looks at Yennefer, clearly trying to convey something, but she isn’t sure what. He wants to talk to her? He _doesn’t_ want to talk to her? There are too many people in the way for her to read his mind, and since she does not allow him to decide what she does and does not do, she makes her excuses to Nice Shoes Man, helps herself to a tart, and sits down alone at one of the small tables.

The fiddler steps forward, the crowd starts moving again, and Jaskier flings himself into the empty chair beside Yennefer. There’s sweat beading at his temple, and he’s clutching a leather bag. “Enjoying yourself?”

“The music is quite interesting. Was that last song about me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, shifty-eyed. “I write songs about everything.”

She’s still flattered. “But the song about me is a _crowd favorite._ ”

“I had a _lot_ of time to think about the lyrics.”

“I bet.” Yennefer leans back in her seat, leaving the tart half-eaten. “It’s good to see you, Jaskier.” And what’s almost a surprise is that she means it. They’d parted rather amicably, and he’d greeted her with friendly words. She can’t think of many men who have done that that aren’t after either her body or her powers, and the bard has expressed his absolute fear of both.

“I thought I’d run into you much earlier,” he confesses. “You always seemed to turn up, every few months. But I suppose without Fate’s intervention, two wanderers are unlikely to meet. And it wasn’t me you were finding.”

 _Fate._ It wasn’t Fate. It was a Djinn. “I haven’t spoken to him, if that’s what you’re asking.” She’s _seen_ him. They’ve crossed paths. But Yennefer is good at staying hidden, when she wants to.

She doesn’t want Geralt: and if she does, those feelings are not to be trusted. She hadn’t _chosen_ Geralt. But the thing is—

The thing is, she’d thought he’d chosen _her._

And maybe he had. In a sense. He’d wanted her the moment he made the wish, but a lot of people want her for a moment. A night. Years, even, until they get to know her. She’d thought maybe...

Well. She should have learned that lesson many times over.

“At any rate, I thought you’d have been glad not to see me,” she concludes.

“Well. Are you going to eat that—no? can I—?” Jaskier picks up her unfinished tart. “There’s a chance my anger with you was… misdirected? Perhaps? In that one incident only, and not others that are still very much your fault. But I needed to see you, because since last we spoke, dear Yennefer, I have been collecting _evidence._ ”

Her first thought is that it’s evidence of something Geralt has done, and her second thought is of Nilfgaard. But she can’t understand why he would want to share either of those things with her. “Evidence of what?”

After carefully wiping his hands on a napkin, he reaches into his bag, tossing a broken pen and a small cloth onto the table before withdrawing a haphazard folder of papers. “Of why I am right and why you, witch, are wrong.”

It had been a bit depressing to watch the effect of Geralt’s departure on him, but Yennefer can't say she doesn’t understand why the Witcher said what he did. “Do, please, tell me why I’m wrong.”

The first piece of paper is crammed with bad penmanship, and she’s sure the rest is more of the same. “Let me set the scene for you.” Jaskier raises his hands as though showing off a painting. “The town is Kagen, the year is… well, about seven months ago, and a civil war is about to break out between the two most influential families, because their children have fallen in love.”

Oh.

 _This_ argument.

“Despite having many more responsible options, when these two young people saw each other, they were instantly besotted. They tried to do the responsible thing—they went home, they ignored their feelings. And yet they couldn’t stop coming back to each other. Finally, they decided that the only solution was to be married—which they are, now—but there were _quite_ a few months of angst. Not something either of them wanted in their lives.”

That means nothing. “Young people love angst.” And forbidden love is exciting. Yennefer had certainly gotten a thrill sneaking down to see—well. That doesn’t matter anymore. “If that’s all you’ve got—”

“Nay, attend.” He flips to the next page. “A Nilfgaardian spy impulsively saved the life of a man from Aedirn. When the man offered the spy the law of surprise, he accepted, insisting to himself that the reason was to gain intelligence, and followed the man back to his home. They grew to know each other quite well on the journey, and when they arrived, the man’s wife said their dog had birthed a litter just a few days before. Insisting that the pups were too young to take away from their mother, the spy stayed. Just to learn about how domestic life went in Aedirn, you understand.

“But as the weeks passed, he came up with more excuses: the puppies still needed their mothers’ example. The man’s wife, who he had also grown to care for, was a much better dog trainer than the spy would ever be. Months went by, and he continued living with them, giving fewer and fewer thoughts to Nilfgaard.”

Right. “And how did the wife feel about the arrangement?”

Jaskier smirks. “Quite well, I’ve been led to believe. I stayed in their spare room, and it didn’t seem like it had been in use for _quite_ a while. Took putting some alcohol in them to get the full story, but I have a very trustworthy face.”

He absolutely does not. “The spy is an idiot. Nilfgaard doesn’t forget.” He still chose to stay, and that might lead to all their dooms.

“Well. They may have faked his death. And I’ve been banned from putting this in a song for at least twenty years, so I better live that long.” He shuffles his papers. “Now. A certain count, who only has eyes for his footman…”

By the fifth story of improbable love, Yennefer is very ready for the wine that a servant brings around.

“They’ll want you back up there soon,” the servant tells Jaskier, who nods, barely pausing in his story of a young man and woman from Lyria whose attraction led to much misery and ruin for all involved. Honestly. It is not difficult to _not_ fuck someone. One simply sees them and does not fuck them. But there’s another point, here, and she wants to get to it before Jaskier is called away to do more singing.

“I don’t think you’ve told me the best love story you have, yet,” she says, wondering if he’ll come out and say it. If not, she can goad him a little more: she’s yet to see what happens when Jaskier snaps, but she’s curious.

“Haven’t I?”

She raises her eyebrows, in a way that she’s been reliably informed makes her look all-knowing and smug. _Come on, you runt. Wallow with me._

“I thought the one about the potter’s daughter was rather touching.”

“Of course. But I thought its timeline was rather lacking—you need _years_ to make a truly good story, and that one lacked… magic.” She sips her wine. “The hunt.”

He takes a drink as well, draining his fine wine as if it’s a mug of ale. “Alright,” he says, closing his notes. “Fine. One bard, still in love with one stupid Witcher. Who would choose not to be, if he had any say in the matter, _thank you_ very much.” 

_There_ it is.

Good to know there’s someone on her level.

“Are you sure?” she asks, because she’s never claimed to be a nice person.

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Only you said you weren’t, last time we spoke.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve had quite a bit of time for self-examination since that point.”

“Hmm.” She leans forward. “Are you sure it’s not just you trying to turn his leaving you into a romance? Holding onto a relationship that made you special? A heartbroken bard is always popular.” And there’s something a little bit fun, about embracing your own tragedy. At least for a little while.

Yennefer may have listened to a sad song or two herself, in her time.

“Of course it fucking isn’t,” Jaskier says, now looking genuinely offended. “You think I’d want… First of all, sad songs do not liven up the dance floor. One or two is alright, but you can’t have too many or they’re all you’re known for. No one wants to invite a downer to their parties, and I abhor funerals. _Second_ of all, stewing in your own misery is nice for a few weeks, but it’s damn inconvenient after that. _Third,_ do you think anyone would want—” he flaps his hands a bit. “ _You_ hate loving him too, so you should know. After everything, it’s just a kick in the t… _face_. He hates me. I should at least be indifferent to him back.”

“But if you were indifferent, the last couple decades of your life would be devoid of meaning. You just can’t let go. Surely if you tried harder—”

“I will grant you that I was not close enough to hear what the dragon man said to you,” he interrupts, accepting a second mug of wine. “But I know—knew—Geralt. And so I am confident when I guess that what he said to the djinn was not _I wish Yennefer of Vengerberg would fall irrevocably in love with me._ Am I wrong?”

“He said—” Yennefer hasn’t had enough drink to justify sharing this. “He said he wished we’d never _lose_ each other. Apparently.”

“Well, there you go.” He taps his mug to hers. “Like me, you fell in love via sheer proximity.”

“That’s nonsense. Why would I love him? He’s…” she tries to think of a word that encompasses what, exactly, Geralt is.

“Monosyllabic?” Jaskier offers.

Mm. “Smelly?”

“Hypercritical?”

“Stubborn?”

“Emotionally unavailable?”

 _Every time I’m near you, I say more in five minutes than I have in weeks. And I always regret it._ Who _says_ that?

“Absolutely not the type of person anyone has any business falling in love with,” Yennefer says firmly.

“And yet.” Jaskier gestures between them, taking a quick glance back to check on the fiddler. “I’d argue that we are both blessed with higher than average intelligence—one more so than the other, of course—” he pauses so that they can nod at each other, both firm in their belief of which of the two is smarter, and firm in the belief that the other’s opinion is wrong—“so why would we have done this to ourselves, if we had any other choice?”

“ _I_ didn’t have a choice.”

“If I did, you did. You, Yennefer of Vengerberg, fell in love with Geralt of Rivia, and you’re trying to find a way to blame everything but yourself.”

Ugh. “By your logic, it’s _not_ my fault.”

“And it’s not his fault. Or mine.” Jaskier stands up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “You and I were just cursed at birth with exceptionally poor taste. But my adoring fans are waiting. I’m staying at the Mermaid Tail Inn, if you have any interest in getting absolutely wasted later.”

“Can we say mean things about Geralt?”

“It’s required.”

There are more important things she could be doing, but perhaps it’ll be easier to do those things once she’s gotten this fiasco out of her system.

Maybe, afterwards, she’ll even look up Istredd.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess there might have to be a third part now, huh.


End file.
